


Now These Three Remain: Faith, Hope and Love

by Anonymous



Category: Stanton & Barling - E.M. Powell
Genre: Developing Relationship, Drunken One Night Stand (Both Parties Drunk), Friends to Lovers, M/M, One Night Stand to Developing Relationship, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:15:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28960827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: After a drunken night spent in bed together, Barling has to face the feelings he has hidden from himself and from Stanton, and almost wishes that Stanton would push him away more.
Relationships: Aelred Barling/Hugo Stanton
Comments: 6
Kudos: 2
Collections: Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020





	Now These Three Remain: Faith, Hope and Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoreyG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/gifts).



“Seems like your plan backfired a bit.”

Barling lifted his chin at the sound of Stanton’s teasing, though it was difficult to look dignified when his feet seemed determined to trace a path akin to that of a slowworm winding its way through the grass. His mind was not so clouded that he was unable to form thoughts, but almost a whole bottle of wine had taken a toll on his body.

“Yet it worked,” he said primly.

“It did,” Stanton agreed good-naturedly, taking hold of his elbow. Barling had almost walked past the door of the guest rooms they shared.

Some days earlier, in a last bid to win the boisterous Lord Hempstead’s trust, Barling had sat down with him and plied him with wine, pretending to be a connoisseur himself to get him in the mood, and then cajoled the conversation in the direction of the murder over the course of a whole evening, leading him slowly and steadily on the path where Barling needed him. To Barling’s surprise, Lord Hempstead had not spilled anything that incriminated himself, as he and Stanton had thought he might, but had revealed some incidental details about a married female acquaintance and the time her and Lord Hempstead had spent in an indecent embrace in the nearby woods and had been spotted there. This had swiftly led Stanton and Barling to identify the real killer, who had happened upon the lovers after his latest deed, a connection Lord Hempstead himself had never made.

Since all suspicion was lifted off him, Lord Hempstead had been in a mood to celebrate and Barling could hardly refuse the wine he kept pushing at him tonight without revealing that he had tricked him. Stanton had watched that whole display at dinner with open amusement, which had only made Barling more annoyed.

“Why are you drunk?” Barling sniffed as Stanton closed the door behind them. “I don’t remember you being part of my plot. You needn’t have convinced Lord Hempstead you are partial to wine.”

Stanton laughed. “I don’t need excuses like that,” he said proudly.

Barling huffed and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“That was clever, though,” Stanton said, perching next to him, “the way you got him to talk.”

“Lord Hempstead seemed the type to fall for it. He still hasn’t realised he gave us the most important hint himself. I wonder if he even remembers half of what we spoke of.”

That night, Barling had managed to avoid the wine offered to him by only nipping and then pretending to fill his cup when it had never been emptied, since Lord Hampstead had been drunk half an hour into their conversation and hadn’t paid much attention to details. Would that he had been so careless tonight – he’d made very sure that Barling drank.

Still, Barling felt a little flustered and very pleased at Stanton’s words and only realised with the belated wit of one whose mind was swimming in drink that it was because Stanton was complimenting him. He was too drunk to pretend that this was only him being glad for his pupil’s regard, too.

Carefully, he looked at him from the corner of his eyes. Stanton was always beautiful, but now that Barling’s thoughts had been unleashed by the alcohol, sitting so close Barling he could almost feel his warmth was overwhelming. His blond hair, golden in the firelight, contrasted nicely against pink cheeks and ears, and he was looking directly at Barling with that broad, friendly smile. Barling had to work to tear his gaze away, cursed himself for being as easily charmed as the bar maids and peasant girls they met on their travels. Some days, it felt like all the prayer and all the penance he had done in his life could be wiped away by Stanton casually touching his elbow when he wanted to get Barling’s attention, or a joyful laugh he gave at one dry remark or another that Barling had made.

“We should go to bed,” Barling said. “We have a long ride ahead tomorrow.”

Stanton hummed and let himself fall backwards across the mattress. His shirt slipped up as he stretched his arms over his head, revealing his flat, naked stomach, a trail of dark blond hair running down from his navel and vanishing under the waistband of his breeches. The sight struck Barling dumb like a blow.

“Your bed is through there,” he said, pointing at the open doorway that connected this chamber to another, but unable to make his voice as sharp as he wished it to be.

“I don’t want to get up,” Stanton said, playfully plaintive.

“I’m not sleeping in a different bed just because you are lazy.”

“You don’t have to. Wouldn’t be the first time we slept together.”

That was true, of course. Travelling in a haste as they usually were when crimes called them across the country, unable to rent rooms ahead of time, they had ended up in the same bed in inns often enough. That circumstance had given Barling no end of thoughts which had prompted him to ask God for forgiveness in the mornings.

“I’m also not sleeping across the bed. At least lie down properly – and take off your boots.”

“Alright.”

Stanton hauled himself up with a deep sigh and bent over. Barling followed his example. Uncoordinated as he was, he collided with Stanton’s shoulder as they both reached down to their shoes. Stanton chuckled.

“I’ve never seen you drunk before,” he mused.

“For good reason.”

“I don’t know which. It’s not like you did anything untoward.” Stanton cocked his head. “I wonder how it used to be back in the day, in Paris.”

Barling froze. Stanton had never referred so directly to the tale of his past that he’d told him after their miserable experience in the abbey. Usually, he would have refused to even answer, but the alcohol had loosened his tongue, put the words out before he could think to stop himself. “Imagine me as unreasonable as you,” he said, raising a brow.

Stanton laughed again, taking the jab in stride. “It’s difficult,” he said. “Besides, I know you weren’t of quite the same temper. You said yourself you weren’t known to take lovers, and, well...”

“You aren’t known for sending them away,” Barling finished the sentence archly.

“It’s the best way to spend an evening,” Stanton said with a shrug.

“The church would disagree. Besides, even if I’d wanted to, I never had your looks and way with people.”

Had he met Stanton all those years ago, he would have probably just sat in the corner of whatever tavern they were both visiting, looking furtively at him whenever he had a chance to do so without getting caught. Though he’d been a more forward man then, when it came to his desires, he had always been reluctant.

Stanton clapped him on the shoulder.

“I think you were just shy.”

“Are you complimenting me?” Barling asked doubtfully.

Were he a woman, or had they been speaking about female lovers Barling might have been seeking, it would have made sense. However, Stanton just smiled and nodded his head, anyway. To hear him speak with such freedom of this secret that Barling had kept so tightly was odd. Nobody else had reacted like his interest was just a random aberration, something that could be treated with the same levity as the relations between men and women. Not that Barling had shared his specific story with anyone but priests, of course.

“Sure. I mean, if we’d met then, if we’d been the same age, who knows...”

Barling raised his head, not quite sure what his pupil was getting at. Doing so, he realised how close they were sitting, but his fogged brain prevented him from taking the appropriate distance. He just kept looking at him and Stanton looked back with his beautiful blue eyes.

He kissed Barling.

Barling had almost forgotten what it was like to have lips pressing against his own and he’d actively pushed away the memory of his blood rushing both up into his head and down between his legs with the force of a stream grown full with melting snow in spring. He knew that he should turn his head away, but when he’d almost made the decision, Stanton grabbed him by the hips and pulled him closer and Barling realised with sudden certainty that he was too weak to put a stop to this temptation.

Almost reverently, he touched Stanton’s hair, like he’d wanted to do so many times when he saw it blowing in the wind, let it glide through his fingers as Stanton, encouraged, made use of the shock-slack seat of Barling’s jaw and pushed his tongue into his mouth, his hands roaming Barling’s arms.

Somehow, Barling ended up on his back. His head was already unsteady from the wine, the world spinning with his mind. Stanton’s body laid hot and solid over his own and, young man that he was, Barling could already feel Stanton’s manhood firm against his hip. The wine had to be affecting him, too, since he grabbed and stroked him all over with hands that seemed a little aimless, but when he leaned back, Barling saw the bright smile on his face and found warmth wash over him, muting the voices of sense and decorum in the back of his head. Had it been any other man, Barling figured he might have been able to disentangle himself, but he had wanted Stanton for so long that the walls of his castle had already been crumbling as from continued onslaught, a one-sided war Stanton had never known he was fighting, much less winning.

“Perhaps we can still do what we missed out on, since fate didn’t see it fit to make us both young men in Parus,” Stanton joked and kissed him again.

Carefully, Barling lifted his hands and let them slide under Stanton’s shirt. Stanton was not as hard in body as Richard’s had been, but there was lean muscle under his skin, flexing as Stanton, agreeable as always, got rid of his shirt and, since he’d already started, his breeches as well. Barling could only stare dumbly, oddly charmed as Stanton almost fell over the side of the bed in trying to dispose of his clothes, snickered, pulled himself back up by Barling’s ready arms. He was extraordinarily handsome especially in the free, artless way he moved, wholly without shame.

“You as well,” Stanton demanded.

“I don’t look like you,” Barling protested.

As if Stanton could not tell how unimpressive his body was. However, Stanton only laughed again.

“It would be weird if you did. I wouldn’t want to bed my twin.”

Barling rolled his eyes at his wilful misunderstanding, but the way Stanton just brushed away his concern with a jape made it easier to convince himself get rid of his garments; and though Stanton’s watchful, hungry gaze was a mystery to him, he gladly revelled in it. He was barely finished when Stanton was on him again, kissing his neck and chest, his collarbone. Barling dared to lean his mouth against his shoulder and when he had done it once, he could not stop himself anymore. He grabbed on to Stanton and eventually he dared to sneak one hand down to stroke his cock. The form of Richard’s manhood was still much too present in his mind. Stanton’s was thicker, especially at the base, and the lewd thought of what it might feel like between his legs would have shocked Barling back to reason if the alcohol had not cushioned it.

He’d figured that Stanton was already hard since he had youth on his side, but in fact Barling felt himself rising as well. Stanton nuzzled against him, his touches wanton and gentle at once, his face against Barling’s neck.

“Turn around?” he whispered.

Barling’s heart jumped into his throat. He nodded his head, but Stanton’s arms were too tight around him.

“You have to let me,” he reminded him.

Stanton made a thoughtful noise and laughed. “I know, I know. I like this, though.”

Smiling too much, Barling kissed him before slowly unwinding himself and turning. Stanton’s arms remained around him and he kissed the base of Barling’s neck, but sat up afterwards to rummage around the bag that set next to the bed. When he was finished, Barling saw him holding a small flask with a cork. _More wine?_ However, what came from the bottle was a more sluggish, clearer liquid.

“Poppy oil,” Stanton said.

“What do you have that for?”

Stanton chuckled.

“Well, I’ve never done this with a man, but a few women I’ve met preferred it this way. No chance of children, you see.”

Barling nodded his head, did not prod more. He didn’t want to think of Stanton’s other lovers now, especially not as Stanton fumbled to move between his legs, clearly excited. Barling expected to feel his cock against his hole, but it was two fingertips pressing against the muscle there. It had been so long since anyone had tried to push inside that he had mostly forgotten what it felt like, but the alcohol kept him pliant and knowing it was Stanton would have made him fully willing to deal with the ache he usually had felt with Richard at the start, who had not been so careful. However, the dull discomfort of the stretch was quickly overwhelmed by a base want that Barling was torn away by, anyway. He even felt himself twitch towards Stanton’s hand, into his fingers, which would have left him feeling more shame if Stanton hadn’t reacted with a delighted groan. His fingers moved quickly inside Barling, the hint of impatience still not making him rough, not even as rough as Barling feared he may still have enjoyed.

“It’s fine now,” he told him.

Stanton spread his fingers a little before he pulled them out. Thankfully, he did not leave Barling to deal with the slick, empty feeling for too long, instead pushing his cock inside with small, short thrusts, all but rutting into him, breath heavy and one hand grabbing onto Barling’s shoulder. Barling stifled the noises breaking from his throat into the blankets.

Stanton leaned as close over him as he could at this angle. His body was sweat-slick and radiating heat and Barling, who usually recoiled from the simplest human touch, wished it could have been closely pressed against his back. He desperately pushed up and nearer to him, and into his hasty, wanton thrusts. Stanton’s arm wound around his chest and Barling held himself up on his hands. It was an awkward position, in truth, not quite lying or sitting up, but it gave him what he wanted: Stanton so close he could feel him with every inch of his body, on him, inside him. Barling felt himself gasping for air, the quick rise and fall of his chest, more than he heard it.

Stanton reached around him and Barling almost wanted Stanton not to touch his cock because he knew it would be over as soon as he did, but the sensation of his fingers was too intoxicating to urge them away, either. Instead, he gave himself to those few, sweet moments of lust, turning his head to kiss him as he came, allowing Stanton to swallow any treacherous noise.

Stanton held him tight in his arms as he kept thrusting into him. Half-delirious, Barling reached backwards and grabbed at Stanton’s thigh, sinking his fingers deep into the flesh, a wordless encouragement. Stanton whimpered, hugged him tighter, his chin digging into Barling’s shoulder as he came.

They collapsed on the bed together, Stanton laying flat against his back. Stanton was heavy, especially when exhaustion left him all without tension, but turning his head out of the sheets, Barling found that he could still breath even with the weight against his back, and that in fact there was something calming about a heart beating strong against him. He should be shooing him off regardless, of course, make him find his own bed, or at the very least separate the physical connection they still had. However, what of him had not been numbed by the drink succumbed to the pleasant exhaustion after the act, something he still remembered faintly from all those years ago. It did not help his failing willpower that Stanton was still pressing small kisses on his shoulders and neck.

Barling allowed his eyes to slide shut and focus on Stanton’s lips on his skin. He would tell him to leave in a moment.

-

When Barling woke, it was with a headache and a pressure on top and inside of him, and warmer than he had felt all winter. He shifted, confused, and something shifted over him, too, and made a small, sleep-drunk noise.

Barling froze. Second by second, realisations collapsed over him: that his arms were naked, and he felt no cloth on the rest of his form, either; that instead there was a body laying slack against his own; that, in fact, it was a man over him; and, of course, that it was Stanton.

As fear gripped him, Barling tried to stop the memories rushing in as if it could unmake his deeds. It was not just looking back on his behaviour that shocked him, but also the accompanying emotions, knowing that he’d enjoyed himself during sex, a truth he’d tried to hide from himself for all these many years since he had last been with Richard. Above all was guilt, though, bitter as rotten fruit, that he had dragged Stanton along the road of sin that he had so easily been ready to walk again.

Almost frantic, he slapped Stanton’s arm, which laid on the pillow next to his own. Stanton mumbled something inaudible once more, but from the movement on top of Barling, it seemed he was slowly waking. With burning shame, Barling realised that since Stanton was still in him, his treacherous body reacted to his fussing, sending a reflexive shiver up his spine.

“Oh,” Stanton said softly.

“Get off,” Barling ground out, mortified.

Stanton did, sliding out of him. Barling sat up as soon as he could, gathering the blanket around him.

“I must have fallen asleep quickly last night.” Stanton said, scratching the back of his neck.

Barling wished he would have been a little less attractive, blinking himself awake with that wide-eyed, startled expression on his face, a little stubble on his jaw and his hair in disarray.

“That’s the worst of this situation to you?” Barling burst out, more angry at himself than Stanton’s words.

Stanton at least had the good sense to look contrite, but Barling felt pathetic the moment he saw it.

“No,” Barling stopped him when he opened his mouth. “This is my apology to make. I must have – apparently, I tempted you to do something unwise when I told you of my past. I should never have done that. It’s not your fault.”

It was, admittedly, strange to think of himself as tempting to anyone, but Stanton was a young man with a mind that could be all too free and careless, though charming in that quite often, and one could easily imagine how even warped curiosity took hold in it. Barling, in any case, was much older and much more learned and should have stopped what they were doing the moment it started. The thought that he had stained the poor man’s soul was hard to bear. Besides, there were worldly justices to consider as well, if less important in the grand scheme of things. What if a servant had found them like this? He could have gotten Stanton in an inordinate amount of trouble. This had been unworthy behaviour in every regard, but especially because he felt in some parts responsible for Stanton. How could he endanger him like this?

“Barling...”

“We should get dressed before someone finds us. Who knows what they will think?”

At worst, the truth. Barling rose quickly to find his clothes and at least Stanton seemed to agree with him so far, since he went to do the same. The morning sun had not come up yet, but it was still deep winter and some days it never appeared, so Barling couldn’t tell if they had slept through breakfast or otherwise made themselves conspicuous.

_It should be fine. The lord had more wine than us. It’s unlikely he will be on time, either. He hasn’t been down from his chambers before midday once since we came here._

That thought was less calming than it should have been. After all, it put them on the same level as that man.

“Barling.”

This time, Stanton’s voice was not quite so hesitant and thus much more difficult to ignore. Barling looked up.

“It’s fine. We just had fun,” Stanton said, raising his hands, his open palms turned towards Barling, a vulnerable sort of defence. “We didn’t harm anyone, did we?”

Barling bit his tongue. He should have given Stanton a lecture on the damage done to their eternal souls, but he was no priest – _clearly_ not –, so he did not feel like he had a right to pass judgement so sharply right now.

“It was not right, and it doesn’t matter if it is me or another – you should seek fun with women if you have to,” he told him tightly. At the very least, he had do this much to push Stanton back into the right lane, though that he had to resort to encouraging him towards lechery at all showed only how far he had fallen. “Come. We need to pack up. It’s a long way back to London and we have no more reason to tarry.”

Stanton did not look happy, but Barling turned away from him. As long as they were outside of this room, Stanton could not try to speak to him about things that shouldn’t have happened in the first place. He knew that it was cowardly to hide, but he also understood that there was really nothing to talk about, in the end, since it would all just lead to false justifications. He grabbed his bag and began to stuff his clothes, his wax tablet, and all the other meagre belongings he owned inside, wanting only to leave this place now.

-

Lord Hempstead was rather surprised to find them sitting on full bags in the entrance hall of his castle after he had rolled out of bed. Barling thanked him curtly for his hospitality, but said that they were needed back in London. Since things had turned out well for him in this investigation, Lord Hempstead was easily moved to say that they were very formidable fellows whose expertise was probably missed and let them go as they pleased.

They clambered onto their horses and set forth at the quickest pace that Barling dared, which unfortunately was not very fast. The country was still painted white with snow, layers of it by now, which had been trampled to frozen ice on the roads and then been covered in a fresh blanket several times, making each step treacherous. Even Stanton, who could ride a horse with such finesse that the animal seemed like little more than an extension of his own two legs, broke the awkward silence he had fallen into all morning to caution that they had to be careful or risk injuring their steeds.

“That’s to your advantage, though, right?” he said, with a weak smile, looking over at Barling. “If we have to be slow, I can’t tease you about it afterwards.”

Usually, Barling may have picked up the joke, shot back with some comment about Stanton’s own short-comings, but he only gripped his reins tighter.

“Lead the way,” he said.

The smile that Stanton had worked so hard to get on his face faded away again.

On the first day of their journey, Barling had already resolved that when they arrived back in London, he would ask a priest if there was anything he could do as penance in lieu of someone else who had been tempted to sin by Barling to protect them from the consequences of their actions, which, after all, had only been committed because of another. He already feared that the answer was no, that Stanton, in all his youthful negligence, had to carry his guilt alone – after all, Barling had been younger than him when he had first committed his transgressions and the priest had hardly been lenient on him then. Still, he’d talked himself into loving a man, had done it for months, and Stanton had only made one drunken misstep. Surely those things had to weigh differently in the mind of the church and the divine creator that watched over them?

Travelling alongside Stanton had actually been somewhat pleasant these last few months. Their relationship had thawed and then Barling’s shell had fully cracked after their experiences at the monastery, when he’d felt compelled to tell Stanton the whole truth so he could decide to leave him for a better teacher if necessary. Stanton, in turn, had shown him nothing but compassion for his ill-spent past. _I should have pushed him to judge me harder. It would have been better for him if he had._ Barling had given in to the comfort of having a companion, though, someone who, in truth, he valued very much for his smart senses and quick wit, and who knew all of the good and wicked contained within his heart and somehow did not shy away from him regardless.

This ease had completely fallen away now, of course. Stanton soon gave up trying to initiate conversations with him and Barling never made an attempt. On the road, the biting wind and thick snowfalls were at least distraction enough, meaning they had to pick their way carefully and with full focus. When night came, however, such luxuries were not granted, and since darkness was long, they spent much more time inside than they would have in the summer.

For once, Barling did not chide Stanton for leaving the rooms they booked at inns to amuse himself at the taverns that usually were in the same building, as it allowed him to spend time away from his pupil. It was bad enough that, since the inns were small, they often had to share a bed again. Even though they stayed on separate sides of it when they tried to fell asleep, the memory of Stanton’s body on his, Stanton’s smile beaming down on him, came with shocking ease when his mind was weakened by tiredness. Sometimes these images even visited him unbidden in his sleep. Then there was the fact that Stanton had always been wild as soon as dreams took over. While Barling usually woke up almost in the same position in which he had closed his eyes, Stanton would be all over the bed and it seemed warm bodies by his side especially drew his sleeping mind’s attention, leaving him to have his hand on Barling sometimes when they woke up, if not his whole arm haphazardly draped over his chest or stomach. Stanton used to laugh at Barling’s indignation and claim he had no control over his sleeping mind, that it was unfair to chastise him for this. These mornings, he just quickly pulled his limbs back to himself without a word. The better part of Barling hoped that this was the shame about their act catching up to Stanton and teaching him the lesson that Barling had so spectacularly failed to impart. The worse part of him mourned the easy way with which Stanton had treated him. The darkest side of his mind still clung to the way his skin had felt aflame when Stanton’s hand had laid against it and wished to steal a shadow of that sensation from Stanton’s sleeping form; and even there, facing his own lechery, he would not admit to the warmth of another less fiery, but possibly even more dangerous kind that filled him when Stanton was close.

They spent a handful of days in this quiet agony and Barling got used to sleeping with one eye open, unable to tell if it was really so he could quickly get away from Stanton when necessary, as he always dutifully would whenever Stanton encroached upon his space, or if some part of him wasn’t also hoping for these touches and didn’t want to miss them.

It was in one of those long nights filled with swirling thoughts chasing each other in circles around his head that, waking from fitful sleep, Barling found that the space next to him was empty, though Stanton had actually gone to bed earlier than him tonight.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened, of course. Maybe Stanton had gotten bored trying to sleep and wandered off into the tavern – Barling could still hear the low rumble of conversation downstairs. Maybe he had met a pretty young woman this evening and had sneaked into her bedchamber. Maybe he had simply gone outside to relieve himself.

He closed his eyes again and tried to think about something else than Stanton, which had been close to impossible for him these last few days. However, just as he had convinced himself, his ears picked up quiet voices muffled through the wooden walls that came from closer than the taproom, outside in the corridor. Their words were indistinct, but agitated and hasty. Stanton’s voice was there and another man’s that Barling did not recognise.

Perhaps it was the work he did that made him throw back the blanket and get on his feet so quickly. A small quarrel between young men hardly needed his immediate attention, but when you only ever came into a new place to find dead bodies and the people who had robbed their lives, trust in the world drained rapidly. He did not want to find Stanton’s nose or hand broken in the morning because he’d gotten in a fight with someone less gentle than himself. Fast as he was, and as strong as healthy young men usually tended to be, he wouldn’t win in a serious fist fight with a more learned opponent. Besides, Stanton had no business getting into shouting matches, either, when they were still travelling on the king’s business, so either way he should intervene, Barling told himself.

The door’s hinges were well-oiled, which was likely one of the reasons he hadn’t woken when Stanton had first left the room. Barling peered down the hallway. Only a small lantern hanging on the wall gave him a chance to see what was happening at the other end, where two figures stood close against the wall. The light caught in Stanton’s golden hair and sprang off the knife that the man crowding him against the wall was holding.

Barling froze for just a moment. Should he shout? If Stanton’s attacker was new at this occupation or simply drunk and not careful, that might just end with the knife in Stanton’s belly regardless. This fear was likely the reason Stanton wasn’t calling for help from downstairs, either. Could Barling get downstairs himself to fetch assistance, then? Who knew if the situation wouldn’t already have escalated by the time he returned, though, or if the innkeep and his visitors wouldn’t just make it all worse with some rash actions or words of their own?

In his panic, Barling looked around in the hope that something would spur another idea. His gaze fell only on blank walls, the rickety table inside their room, and – a wooden plank with a broken edge that stood by the inside of the door of their chamber, likely one that had been exchanged for another in the floor and that the owner had forgotten to store away.

Barling grabbed it and weighed it in his hands. It was not too heavy to wield.

On quiet, naked feet, he crossed the few steps that separated him from the two men and before he could give himself enough time to second-guess, he hit the plank over the back of the attacker’s head. The brittle wood broke on impact and the man grunted and staggered. Stanton stared at Barling for only a split second before he shot out of the corner, ducking under the man’s arm. He needn’t have been so fast, however. His attacker broke down, the knife slipping from his fingers and clattering on the floor.

“Stanton! Are you alright?”

Now closer to the light, Stanton looked white like a sheet, but he nodded his head.

“I-I think I have rope in my bag?” he stammered.

“Good man. Get it.”

As Stanton hurried into their room, Barling grabbed the knife from the floor and leaned carefully over the man. He was breathing and though there was a bleeding laceration on the back of his head, it did not seem to be a deep wound. He would probably wake up again, though considering he had just threatened a man’s life under the eye’s of one of the king’s men, he might not like the world he would find himself in when he did. Barling’s compassion was severely limited, though, when he looked closer at the knife and saw that there was fresh blood on the metal.

When Stanton returned, he allowed him to tie the man’s hands and feet, but then grabbed Stanton by the shoulder and turned him to face him so that he could scan him head to toe. The cut he’d suspected to exist was on his left arm. Barling thanked the Lord that it did not look to have gone down far into the muscle, but it still bled profusely, red running down in rivulets over Stanton’s hand and dripping on the ground.

“You are hurt,” he said, the admonishment softened by worry.

Stanton followed Barling’s gaze.

“Right,” he said, mouth open with wonder for a moment. “We had a scuffle.” He blinked at the wound. “How did I not notice?”

“When fear reigns, sometimes pain takes a step back so you can still fight if need be,” Barling said. He had seen the same with many men and women, and from the tears in Stanton’s shirt and the pink spots on his arms that would surely turn to bruises, it looked like the man had handled him roughly all over. “Let’s bind your wound and then talk to the innkeep. He needs to inform what they have for local authorities.” After a last look at their captive to make sure he was secured, Barling waved Stanton towards their room. “What happened?”

“I woke up parched, but I didn’t have any water left in my flask,” Stanton started, as they walked back into their chamber. “I went to go downstairs and I took my purse, since I figured I might pick up some food, too. As you always say, I’m never not hungry.”

Barling gave a small huff of breath and grabbed one of the cloths they would usually use to wash their faces to quickly tie it around Stanton’s arm. He would do better later, but they had to get rid of the attacker first, maybe get a couple of the stronger men drinking downstairs up here before he woke up and caused trouble.

“What then?”

“Well, there wasn’t any food left on account of the hour, but my purse was hanging at my belt. When I went back upstairs, this man followed me.”

“You should have just given him your money,” Barling admonished. “I would have replaced what he took.”

“I tried, but he kept saying I had more. I think he figured that I must be well off, since we came together and you look more put-together than the average guest here. From the smell, he’d had a few ales too many to drink, too.”

Barling frowned. It made some sense, but he did not like that he had inadvertently placed Stanton in danger.

“Let’s get some help to have him properly apprehended.”

Together, they walked downstairs into the inn, where he noticed a few strong-looking men were playing at dice and didn’t look too drunk yet. Barling went to talk to the innkeep, and, though dressed in his night-clothes still, managed to command his attention immediately with a stern face and voice that invited no backtalk.

The matter was just the sort of tale that would spur everyone in a tavern after midnight, especially with Stanton there to point at his blood-stained bandage and Barling able to present the equally red knife. After the innkeep had sent his daughter riding for his lady’s small castle up the hill, he took a few of many willing men ready to play a part in the story to investigate their catch. The attacker was already moving and muttering again, though not with much purpose yet.

“Don’t know that one,” the innkeep said and from the earnestly confused looks on the faces all around, Barling figured that he was likely saying the truth. “Saw him earlier this evening, though. Lots of travellers here, just like you two, if you don’t mind my saying. Until Tilly’s back, we’ll keep him in a back room.”

“One with a lock,” Barling reminded him.

When he had made sure the men had securely stored Stanton’s attacker away, Barling finally had time to get back to his pupil. Stanton, trailing behind him, had been handed a mug of thick brown ale by some friendly soul and looked much revived when he sat down at their table.

“What a night,” he murmured.

“It’s not over for you yet. I need to properly care for that wound,” Barling said.

Stanton nodded his head, picking apart his bandage. The bleeding had stilled, though the cut still looked gruesome. Barling took the bowl of water and fresh cloth that he’d asked the barmaid for and used the wet fabric to clean his blood-smeared skin as well as brush the dirt from his wound. Next, he fetched the small bottle of old wine in his bag that he never drank from, but had started to keep to treat wounds, since Stanton and him so often managed to get hurt. Stanton hissed when Barling poured it onto the raw flesh, but did not complain or pull away.

“We’ll have to keep an eye on it,” Barling said, after binding the wound, “to make sure this doesn’t fester.”

“Don’t worry too much. I’ve had worse than this.”

“That’s no reason not to be careful,” Barling answered, raising his brows. “Just because one wound did not lead to inflammation doesn’t mean another can’t.”

“Alright, alright.”

Stanton smiled. It was the smile that he used to give Barling before their fateful night together, the bright, sunny one that Stanton so often turned towards the world. As Barling saw it, his stomach seemed to collide with his ribcage in an ill-thought-out jump and a thought settled with sudden, sober clarity into his mind: that he loved Stanton.

Quickly turning away to put a cork in the wine bottle, Barling thought he should have been more frightened by this realisation, but then, it was not the way of sensible men to be unduly surprised by things that were self-evident.

_I think I have known this for a long while._

He went to stand up, but Stanton grabbed him by the arm. Barling looked down at him. He was still smiling, but it was not quite as irreverent.

“You might have saved my life today, Barling.”

“If I did, I only returned the favour.”

Stanton chuckled. “We get in too much trouble together,” he said. He released Barling only after squeezing his arm.

“By this point, I think you should well and truly regret agreeing to work with me,” Barling murmured, referring to too many things.

“No. I mean,” Stanton smiled, “I can’t say I didn’t complain at the start, when I didn’t know you so well, but now it’s different.”

And despite the fact that it was wrong, Barling’s heart lifted a little.

-

The innkeep’s daughter returned, followed by two guards in chainmail. By the time they unlocked the door, the attacker was already on his bound feet again, but he did not get far with the guards in his way. They threw him in the back of a wagon and asked Barling and Stanton to come speak to their lady mistress in the morning.

Barling did not sleep, instead sitting at the wobbling table to piece together all the details of what had happened on parchment for a report. Stanton, however, had curled up on the bed under the blanket and managed to get some well-deserved rest. Looking up sometimes from his work to watch him, his face drained of all concern by sleep, calmed Barling’s nerves over the course of the night.

Barling had planned to ride up to the castle to meet the lady, but in fact she visited them at the inn in the morning, suitably annoyed that king’s men had been attacked on her land. She told him that after her husband’s death and with her sons still small, she looked over the place, and a conversation with her assured Barling that she would act out the punishment of the stocks on Barling’s behalf once the man had fully recovered from the blow, which should only take another one or two days.

After she had promised to write to him to tell him how things ended with the would-be robber, Barling and Stanton grabbed their horses again. She would have happily given them room and board, but with a glance Barling could tell that Stanton was just as little in the mood to stay here for longer than need be as he was. If they were lucky, they could make it back to London in a day’s ride and they were both eager to be back home after these events.

It turned out that it might have been more prudent to consider her offer, though. Only a few hours after they had left, the sky grew lead grey as a result of a sudden, sharp wind from north that drove storm clouds along the heavens like fat sheep. Though it was only noon, the light was suddenly as dark as evening. Soon enough, snow started to fall, a thin but persistent dust that settled on their clothes and their horses and made it hard to see ahead on the road.

“We might have to look for an inn sooner tonight,” Stanton said, turning in his saddle to call over the wind that whistled in their ears.

“Yes!” Barling shouted back.

It was unfortunate that their journey to London should be delayed more than it already had been, but this winter had taught Barling more than any in the city could have that such weather was not a force to be taken lightly. He swayed on the horse’s back as it struggled on an icy patch and clung hard to the saddle with one hand, hoping that an inn would soon reveal itself.

Luck was not with them in that matter, though. The wind and snow picked up. Under the white cover it was hard to see what was around them, but as soon as he started to pay attention, Barling realised that there were no fields to either side of them, but open meadow, with only the distant shadow of woods at the horizon. The last hamlets they had seen were now too far back to turn around.

With as much care as he could, he pressed his heels into his horse’s belly and caught up with Stanton in the front. They were the only travellers on the narrow road, too, and had been for quite some time. Meanwhile, the clouds overhead had only grown darker and the cold bit his skin.

“What is our plan if we can’t find an inn, or any other house that may take us in?” he asked anxiously.

Stanton had spent much more time on the road than him when he had still been a messenger.

“Then a cave or overhang has to do,” Stanton said, looking at him. “Maybe the forest, though that can be dangerous. In a place like this, with no hunters around, wolves often come out to the edges of the wood, but if we’re lucky, they’re hiding from the storm, too.”

Glancing over to the foreboding block of shadow in the distance, Barling shivered at the thought of braving the woods and its inhabitants in this darkness.

“You could probably ride fast enough to reach a proper place to rest before the worst breaks down over us,” Barling murmured, looking skywards.

“Are you telling me to leave you behind? Don’t be daft, Barling.”

“No, I know.”

Of course Stanton wouldn’t, but it was a bad feeling to be the one slowing them down.

They rode side by side in silence for a while. The wind had driven icy air well and truly under Barling’s clothes and he doubted that Stanton fared better. Every once in a while, Stanton lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the ever-growing chaos of whirling snowflakes and look ahead.

“There’s a house over there,” he said, into the wind.

Barling followed where he pointed his finger with his gaze. He only saw a dark dot, but Stanton had better eyes than him.

“We have to try it,” Barling said, “no matter who lives there. I can pay them.”

Stanton reached over to grab Barling’s horse by the reins. It used to be that Barling protested such transgressions, but he’d since learned that when Stanton thought the road would be too difficult for him to manage, Barling would indeed end up on the ground if he did not concentrate on holding on to the horse. The last thing they needed now was for him to break his leg or arm, so he swallowed the indignity without comment.

Over the uneven ground of the snowed-in meadow, Stanton led them towards what revealed itself to be a small, windowless hut. Barling slipped gracelessly off the back of his horse and staggered over in the strong wind to the door, rapping at it with his knuckles.

The door swung open and revealed one dark room with a ground of simple earth. With the help of the last bit of grey light, he could see thick cobwebs on the broken crates in the corner and in the hearth.

“It’s deserted,” he called over his shoulder.

Stanton had gotten off his horse, too, and was leading both animals by the reins. “Then let’s get us and the horses inside,” he said.

Manoeuvring the animals through the low, narrow door proved to be a challenge, but they were as happy to escape the weather as the people who’d been riding them. Barling pulled the door shut behind them and then dragged some of the debris from the corner in front of it so the wind wouldn’t blow it open again.

“We could make a fire with this,” he said, looking at the old crates that were left over after he had blocked the door. The roof leaked a little and the wind hissed between the boards, but that corner of the house was dry and he’d felt the wood was, too, when he’d grabbed it.

“We could sure use that,” Stanton murmured, rubbing his gloved hands together.

Before Barling could ask him to, he threw his bag down and dug through it with more force than needed. Barling found himself confused by the frown that drew his face tight. Surely this was a stroke of luck? There was really no reason Barling saw to be this worried right now.

He decided that the fire was the priority, heaving some of the smaller pieces of wood he could find into the empty hearth. Meanwhile, Stanton had found the flint and iron and a bushel of dry grass he carried to make the flames catch. The way he hit the flint and iron looked a little too violent as well, but at least it quickly produced sparks that rained down on the grass, which he placed in the hearth on top of Barling’s bounty, and from there the fire started eating in small red lines into the wood, producing an earthy scent. Stanton took a deep breath and sank down in front of the hearth, flicking the piece of iron with his thumb. The uncharacteristically deep furrow between his brows had not disappeared.

“Are you alright?” Barling asked Stanton, watching him stare into the flames. “Does the wound still bother you? It has been a hard day’s ride.”

“No – it’s not that.”

Finally, the expression melted and what was left was almost sheepish and somewhat sad. Barling did not like it more.

After taking off his snow-covered cloak so it would not melt through and get the rest of him wet when the fire got going, Barling sat down on the ground. Stanton followed his example, ridding himself off his cloak, too. In front of them, the fire began to flicker and sprout embers.

“Well?” Barling prompted him, trying to put some of his usual severity into his voice, the tone he used to interrogate people, but it came out somewhat sourly, weakened by concern. It was enough to prod Stanton, though.

“This – all this, with the snow, and now sitting trapped here – just reminds me a bit too much of earlier this winter,” Stanton murmured, running a hand through his damp hair. “It’s not like that, I know. A hut with a bit of snow piled up around it, with a village probably somewhere in walking distance when the morning comes... it’s not very much like a cut-off monastery surrounded by a wall of mountains and ice.”

Barling gave a slow nod. “Still, I understand,” he said. “You almost died when you tried to get out of the monastery. I was worried that I would lose you in the storm, too.”

Stanton shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “I mean, you’re right, that wasn’t pleasant, none of our stay was. It’s not what’s following me, though.” A pause. He pushed a piece of wood closer to a small flames. “What I keep coming back to is how I pulled you out of that casket. When I held you in my arms, you looked like you were already gone – your lips were blue and your limbs stiff.” He frowned at the small fire that was now burning before them. “I don’t want to see that again.”

As surprised as he was touched by Stanton’s admission, Barling reached out before catching himself and quickly dropping his hand on the trampled earthen ground instead. He still leaned in a little.

“We won’t be separated here,” he said, “and hopefully, no one is hunting us.”

Stanton nodded his head, drawing his shirt tighter around his body as he did so. Barling wished he could have put his arms around him only one more time. He had never been a person people thought of as particularly comforting and he certainly had never employed his body much in situations like these, but shameful as it was, the closeness was there with Stanton to make it an option.

“I know it’s foolish,” Stanton said.

“No, it’s not. Fate is fickle. Last night proved this to us again. I know very well what it feels like to think I might lose a – a close companion.”

Stanton chuckled as Barling stumbled over the last words, but there was no mockery in his expression when he turned to him.

“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve called me since I have known you.”

“That’s not true. I am very proud to call you my pupil,” Barling said, sniffing.

Now Stanton laughed. He hadn’t seen him laughing like that since before that night, not at Barling, anyway.

“I’m also happy you didn’t decide to kick me back out on the road after the first few times we clashed,” Stanton admitted. “But that’s not all I’m glad for...”

“Did you choose a moment where I cannot run away to start with this?” Barling murmured.

“Does it make a difference? You can always shut me down with a few words.”

“Not when you’re being hard-headed.”

But despite his stomach twisting, Barling felt it would be better to talk. It hurt not to be honest with Stanton, even if their truth was dangerous.

The fire was growing quicker now and Stanton leaned over to the broken crates to free a few more pieces of wood and push them into the flames.

“You understand that even if I were a woman, frivolous acts like ours wouldn’t be considering virtuous,” Barling said, after a long moment of silence.

“Who says that it was only a frivolous act?” Stanton asked, his voice caught somewhere between cautious and hopeful.

“ _You_ said it,” Barling blurted out.

Stanton stared at him and then pulled the corners of his mouth down. “You’re right,” he admitted. “That’s not what I meant, though. We did just have fun that night, it didn’t do harm to anyone. Does that have to be everything there is to it, though?”

Barling cursed himself for the flutter he felt in his stomach, the stumble in his heartbeat. Had he still not learned that this was not a hopeful development to be greeted with joy? He should be praying for Stanton instead of silently hoping that he would follow down Barling’s own road.

“You know very well why that is not a possibility.”

“I guess I just don’t really know why it should be wrong. I understand why you can’t steal or murder or sleep with somebody else’s wife. I understand why I shouldn’t talk bad of God. I don’t understand what makes this so different from when I loved women. From what you said, you have never been in love with a woman, but I have, and I can tell you that it doesn’t feel different at all.”

Barling chewed on his cheek. Really, he should have told Stanton that the devil was speaking out of him by that point, but that was exactly the argument Barling had made to himself back in the day. There was no difference he could pinpoint, and what harm could there be in love?

“Because that is what wiser men than me have written,” he said. After all, it were the words of others that had finally brought him back on the path of light.

“Since when do you just bend to higher authorities like that, with no argument? That has always confused me about you, you know. You only do this with men and women of the church, as if we’ve not seen often enough now that they can be just as wrong-headed and dark-hearted as anyone.”

Barling snapped his mouth shut. He himself had noted his blind spot back in the monastery, though that one had been motivated by other things than just his reverence for the cloth.

“It’s not like just one errant priests believes this.”

“And you’ve never seen a whole lot of people believe a wrong thing? If many think it true, that automatically makes it so?”

“The bible says it’s true.”

“According to the bible, I should say I’m an unsalvageable sinner as well. Frivolous acts, you said so yourself! Yet, most priests just smile and shake their head at me.”

The different weight that sins received had never escaped Barling, either. And wasn’t he just as prone to this as others? He never really did more than make snide remarks about Stanton bedding his way through England and indulging in every favour of life, and he didn’t believe that Stanton would go to hell for it.

He didn’t have an argument for this, he realised, and that forced a quiet, humourless laugh out of him. “If you start arguing like this when we are at work, you will soon not need my tutelage anymore,” he answered.

“Well, I’m arguing my own case now. The motivation is different.” Stanton cocked his head. “But I know why it’s difficult for you to get one over me. I think deep down, you also still believe that having affection for someone who enjoys your company is not wrong.”

“Say that is true,” Barling said, though admitting as much put him in quite some fear for their souls, “what will it get you?”

“I don’t know,” Stanton admitted, and the righteous anger that had filled him drained away as quickly as it had come. “Whatever you want to give me, if anything. If you just want me to stop this, then that’s alright, too.”

Barling wished he were a stronger person, but it seemed that out of his misspent youth survived that streak of rebelliousness, the man who had argued every instructor into a corner and believed in himself so much more than Barling did now, even despite all the pride he presented himself with.

He leaned forward and kissed Stanton. When they parted, Stanton beamed at him and Barling was briefly reminded of the self-satisfied smile that had always been on Richard’s face. The expressions could not have been more different.

“Then let us hope that I was right in the past,” Barling said quietly, after wrestling with himself for a moment.

“Just so you know, when God judges us, I’m still going to call on you so you can argue for us. I love to know I won a fight, but I’m sure you could do better than me if you allowed yourself to say what you really think.”

“That’s enough blasphemy for one night,” Barling said, raising a brow.

Stanton laughed and laid his head on his shoulder.

The fire climbed and climbed on the dry wood and filled the hut with its heat, but it was the warm body pressing into his that really chased away the cold that had settled into Barling’s bones. Stanton put his good arm around Barling’s middle and pulled him closer to himself and a little nearer to the fire. Barling turned to Stanton, who had raised his head. He opened his mouth without knowing what he wanted to say, overwhelmed, but thankfully Stanton kissed him again, then again, as if he wanted to test that he could. Barling tried to commit to memory how it felt. For as much as he had chided himself for always going back to that night, he had at the same time been secretly disappointed that what he remembered was unclear around the edges because of the wine.

Stanton’s hand had slid down from his side to his thigh. Barling couldn’t tell if that had been planned, but as Stanton embraced him now, he did not move it away. His hug was one-armed, but desperately tight, and if nothing else Barling felt like he could be sure of the truth of Stanton’s feelings. Why did they seem so much more pure when they came from him, so much less like something Barling was willing to condemn? Perhaps he had spent too much time talking to himself about the evils of his own mind.

“Since we have a fire...”

Stanton’s smile was playful and Barling wanted to be stern and reasonable, but his hands were already on Stanton’s hips and the fear and elation of the last hour had sent his pulse racing.

“We shouldn’t get undressed regardless,” he said, to let a little sense remain. “Let me go.”

“Well... you might be right,” Stanton said, though his gaze was remorseful.

The look was wiped off his face when Barling leaned over his lap. It felt so good to surprise him for once in such a matter, as Stanton had surely thought Barling had simply rejected him. Barling doubted he would often be able to do it, not here, woefully uneducated as he was in matters of intimacy. This, however, was something he knew how to do, and it would not require a lot of clothes to fall.

Stanton’s breath already hitched when Barling unlaced his trousers. Since his hands were cold and Stanton’s manhood was already stiff and standing, he only nudged him out of the fabric and took him in his mouth without wrapping him in his fingers.

A hand landed in the back of his neck. Barling held still. Richard had always taken his mouth rather roughly, which Barling had not minded, happy to be of service, though at times it had rattled his skull pretty hard. However, Stanton’s hand remained loose on him, like a caress.

The difference threw him off for a moment, but the opportunities it provided immediately sprang into his mind. Back in the day, Barling had liked teasing with his tongue, watching the reaction when he sucked the cock deep into his mouth, though he’d put such thoughts far out of his mind for many years. Perhaps he could try these things at his own pace now, since Stanton was less imperative.

Hearing Stanton moan out loud as Barling pushed his head down and enveloped him with his mouth made Barling jump, but they were so far from any other human soul that there was no reason for Stanton not to. The sound went straight through him, making him harder than he already was. He moved his head faster, swallowing as much as he could, and Stanton’s low noises sped up in time with his movements. Though Barling could not imagine he was anything but somewhat clumsy, it seemed that Stanton enjoyed him nevertheless.

The assurance made him bolder and he flicked his tongue, pressed it against him, wrapped it around him, listening to the sound Stanton made at each movement, the way his hand tightened briefly into Barling’s short strands. Barling catalogued the reactions – he’d always been fastidious like that when he studied. Sometimes, Stanton would even give a breathless word of praise, but the greatest one was when he suddenly seized up, the groan he gave sounding as if he’d surprised even himself with his sudden peak. Seed spilled over Barling’s tongue and he swallowed reflexively when it hit his throat, not minding the salty taste.

“Sorry,” Stanton said, when Barling drew back, looking at his mouth. “Oh, you...” He took a deep breath. “You swallowed it?”

“Shouldn’t I have?”

Stanton grinned.

“No – if you don’t mind, I certainly don’t! I didn’t expect you to. Guess I didn’t give you that much of a choice.” He glanced at Barling’s tented robes. “My turn?”

“You don’t have to...”

But Stanton was already straightening and tipping Barling backwards, folding the robes out of the way and pulling at his breeches. The cold air touched Barling’s heated skin as his cock was freed. He doubted he could have stood up to more than a few moments of Stanton stroking him in this state, much less the way his lips wandered experimentally over the length of his cock after he’d ducked his head.

“I don’t think I will be long...”

“Then you might not notice I’m not good at this yet,” Stanton said, amused.

There was such a lightness to this, Barling thought, his breath speeding up as he watched him sucking the tip of his cock. With Richard, he’d never have described sex as fun – intense, yes, but also something he dreaded with equal parts anticipation and anxiety, like a performance in front of a crowd. Here, he had no fear of ridicule.

When he tapped Stanton’s shoulder to warn him Stanton leaned back and gripped him with his cold hands, cupping him with his palm so he would not spill over their clothes, smiling mischievously. Barling came biting his tongue.

“I like this,” Stanton said, after giving Barling a moment to collect himself. “I’ll get to practice it, right?”

Though Stanton’s tone was irreverent as he wiped his hands on an old piece of cloth from his bag, Barling heard the question in there. Stanton wanted Barling to agree, to stand by his words that he would trust in his own judgement.

After taking a deep breath, Barling nodded his head.

Under a thin blanket Stanton produced from his bag, they sat together before the fire, shoulder to shoulder. Barling eventually closed his eyes, too tired despite everything to spent another night awake. Sitting here with Stanton on the cold ground, his feet wet and his back hurting, was the best he had felt in years.

-

The next morning, the storm had blown over and the sun was already glittering on the new snow when they pushed the door open. Barling shuffled handfuls of it onto the embers so they would not burn the house down when they were gone while Stanton led their horses outside. While it was cold, the wind had abided and the sky overhead was as blue as crystal. Barling thanked God for that mercy, something that he had failed to do often when he was in Paris, as if not speaking to God could hide him from the Almighty’s gaze.

No, even if this was to be the sin he had agreed was his, he still didn’t have to slide back into all the other unsavoury habits. A man of God who admitted to his love for another man was an odd thing, but perhaps not the strangest on this earth. Stanton seemed to carry the burden of that thought much more easily and while he could be thoughtless, Barling knew very well he was not stupid. At the very least, Barling could calm himself knowing that Stanton had made his decision with seeing eyes and not as a result of trickery on his part. Though he’d shut the thought down last night, there was something he liked about the idea of the two of them standing to be judged together, as one. Perhaps their closeness would be some proof in itself.

He did not know, of course, what would happen between Stanton and him now in the world outside of fantasies and fancies. They talked as they used to while they prepared for the journey and then Barling was mostly busy not falling off his horse on yet more slippery ground. Barling wanted to kiss Stanton again, but had too little experience with lovers to dare that step, and Stanton was legitimately busy wrestling his own horse and keeping Barling’s from bolting with his only good hand.

“We might have reached these houses if we’d pushed on,” Barling said conversationally, when they passed by a small collection of farms as the first fields started appearing not too long after they had started on their journey. “Though with the weather being as it was, and not knowing the road well, I think it would have been too much of a risk to try.”

“I’m glad we didn’t,” Stanton just said and smiled at him.

Barling was happy the cold wind would have coloured his ears and cheeks red already.

London’s walls drew up in front of them by noon and Barling found himself hoping that they would be allowed to stay here for now. He was tired of sleeping in other beds and he needed some time to think after everything that had happened, without the winter wind whistling in his ears.

After they had brought the horses back to the court’s stables, they decided to part for the evening. Stanton touched his shoulder as they did, brushing snow away. Barling gave him a nod in response. It looked like a parting between friends.

Without Stanton’s smiling face, doubt was easier to come by, but Barling chased it away for the night by concentrating on finalising his drafts of their report of the actual crime they had been sent to investigate, a story that admittedly had already faded in his mind after everything that had happened on the road. He managed to sleep deep and dreamless during the night, though on his narrow cot he missed Stanton’s body trying to capture his in his sleep. Perhaps if that happened again on their next journey, Barling could let him and claim the innocence of sleep. He doubted Stanton would be cross with him.

He had gone back to his scrolls the next morning when there was a knock at the door. Stanton stood in front of it when Barling opened, a smile on his face.

“Can I help you?” Barling asked.

“It’s a nice day, so I thought I would drop by. You should come with me.”

“To do what?”

“Nothing in particular. Get out of your chamber for a few hours. I know you’ll just be bent over scrolls for the rest of the day if I let you be.”

“You do understand that this is my occupation, yes? I am a clerk.”

Stanton stepped inside the room and closed the door behind himself. Barling lived in a house with others, but the walls were reasonably thick, so they could speak here in secret. They had made use of this talking about the king’s business before, but Barling’s thumping heart told him that was not what this would be about and sure enough, Stanton leaned down and pressed a kiss on his mouth.

“Don’t I also have some demand on your time now?” he asked, with that mix of cheek and curiosity that Barling found so hard to resist.

“As my close companion?” Barling asked, allowing a little self-deprecating humour to underline his words.

Stanton chuckled. “As your man?” he suggested.

Barling stared at him.

“My man? Does that mean you would set others aside for me?”

“Of course, if you do the same.”

“Yes, just let me write to all my many lovers to inform them,” Stanton said flatly.

Stanton chuckled and raised his hand, put it against Barling’s cheek. “Let’s take a walk today. Get some fresh air, some food. Maybe come back here later.”

It was the sort of thing lovers did, stroll about the city to talk and enjoy each other’s company with a silent promise that they would be in private by the end. Barling could not remember that he had ever done anything as ordinary and as intimate.

“I will fetch my cloak,” he told Stanton.


End file.
